


Nine

by amidtheflowers



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are nine moments when a man enters her life, making her feel something more than she understood. Nine moments when a man likes to consider himself Jaqen H'ghar, if only for a lovely girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my imagining of times that weren't shown to us in the series between Jaqen and Arya, starting from when she was young to when she becomes an adult. Some if it can be canon compliant, but there will likely be departures from canon (especially when catching up with the series as of season 7).
> 
> Additionally, this story will follow the show, as I'm still in the middle of reading the books.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Nine**

**-:-**

**The First**

 

It began with summer rain.

Arya huffs, kicking at the layers of skirts around her leather boots as she strides through the garden, glaring at the towering stone walls. King’s Landing is everything she is not; meticulous, impractical, full of strange rules—Sansa loves it, and Arya has long since given up on trying to show her the _true_ way. It would make her sad, if only Sansa had not been so foolishly stubborn. She kicks at the grass, making a face.

Had Mother come along Arya knows her liberties here in the castle would be even less than they are already, but the small garden isnot enough to appease her. She wants to feel the soil beneath her feet, to run swift as the wind with Nymeria, to kneel on the riverbeds and imagine herself swimming with scales down her back and fins for hands.

She cannot admit it aloud, but there are parts of King’s Landing Arya revels in. For while Winterfell is her home, an icy tundra that she misses each day, King’s Landing offers her brilliant sunshine and stars so bright she feels she could reach out and grasp them in her hand. Things are _brighter_ here, the grass taller and more vibrant, and the air held a sweetness in it that Arya was told was lavender and honeysuckle. There are so many places she wishes she could explore, yet her she strode, amidst a tame garden. 

Arya sits down onto a stone bench and glares at the two guards near the entrance of the garden, tapping her feet impatiently. _Under Father_ and _the king’s orders,_ she thinks, grimacing. While grateful that they do not hover, their presence isan iron chain to her exploration. The castle and garden, while vast, are limiting and unyielding. She isn't allowed to bring Nymeria with her here, lest she despoil the flowers. She needs to _leave_ , she needs a distraction; she needs—

An idea strikes her—not an uncommon occurrence for the young Stark daughter—and Arya pauses. Dark eyes dart up to scrutinize the high walls. The foliage _does_ seem to grow thick enough, if Arya thinks about it...

Arya jumps to her feet and surreptitiously glances at the guards. She can just faintly hear the crunch of an apple being bitten into, and idle talk among the men. Quietly she slinks away from the stone path and makes for the crawling vines, making herself unseen, holding her breath.

It takes a few minutes for the guards to notice the unfamiliar stillness in the garden. She hears her name once, twice, and a glance through the vine show the guards stepping onto the stone path. Arya smiles.

She moves far from the twisting vines and dashes back to the bench, slowing to a stop when the guards find her.

Arya looks up innocently. “Did you call?”

**-:-**

“I’m leaving the castle today,” Arya says conversationally to Sansa, watching the maid twist her sister’s hair into the Southern style.

“Of course you are,” Sansa sniffs, holding up a small mirror to herself to see the braids. “Make sure to wash before supper. You always stink of fish when you come back from the market.”

“I’m going past the market,” Arya says boldly. “And I don’t stink of fish.”

“You’re practically one yourself,” Sansa laughs, her eyes lighting with delight when the maid finishes. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she breathes. “Just like the Queen’s.”

“Fish are swift in rivers, and make filling meals,” Arya retorts. “You only have your braids, and they’re not even pretty.”

Sansa gives her a withering look. “We’re not in the North anymore, Arya. You should let Mila do your hair this way as well. Queen Cersei would be most pleased when she sees it at supper.”

“I’m beginning to wonder who you’re trying to impress,” Arya says wryly. “Perhaps it’s the Queen you should marry.”

Sansa throws the mirror, narrowly missing Arya’s ear. Mila chides softly and Sansa turns away from Arya, who glares at her indignantly. “Go then,” she says coolly, as if a queen herself, “go past the market and do your exploring. By chance you’ll lose your way, and none of us will suffer your _childishness_ anymore. A happy relief for Father, at least.”

Arya glares at her sister and stands quickly, ignoring Sansa’s look of satisfaction at having bested her. Just as she opens the door, Arya turns and stares at Sansa. “Perhaps I will.”

**-:-**

Arya returns to the garden. The guards smirk down at her silently when she huffs past them, thinking her to be bored. She makes a point to lay on the bench for a while, staring listlessly at the clouds that drift above her. She waits patiently, her ears straining to listen to every sound in the garden. The birds twittering in a nearby bush. A fly zooming past her ear towards the poinsettias. And finally, a distant crunch of an apple being bitten into.

Arya lifts her head slowly and twists her torso so her feet can gently touch the ground. She bends a little, hiding herself as she steals towards the thicket of vines again that curl up far towards the left of the stone bench. She waits with bated breath.

They do not come.

Arya sighs in relief; they had learned from yesterday not to think Arya would suddenly disappear. She smiles inwardly at how easy it has been to fool them. _Too easy_ , she thinks idly. She squints up at the top of the high walls where the vines reached, and bites her lip. She is not like Bran, who climbed as if he were born for the skies. But she isn’t afraid—not the kind that will give up, at least. Steeling herself, Arya grabs onto a thick vine and hoists herself up.

“How…does Bran…make this look so easy?” Arya grunts, pausing again to catch her breath. She is halfway up, and her arms already tremble from the strain. Gritting her teeth Arya heaves herself up, higher and higher, until the vines start to grow thin and the air a little cooler. Her hand reaches up and grabs onto the ledge. Grinning, Arya pulls herself forward and sits atop the high garden wall.

She peers over the edge warily. The climb down will be considerably easier as there are several parts of the opposite wall that have ridges, perfect for climbing. Arya slowly lowers herself onto the other side of the wall, making sure nobody is roaming on the other side, and begins her descent.

 Sweat runs down the side of her head as Arya carefully checks her footing, small fingers gripping the wall as tightly as she can. _A bit more…a bit more…_ Arya moves quickly now, the ground coming closer. She already imagines the things she will do outside the castle, unchecked, unhindered—

With a jump, she hits the ground.

Grinning in triumph, Arya runs.

Once her feet march onto the dirt and gravel path leading down to the market, Arya breathes easier; the worry slowly dissipates until she is thrumming with excitement, almost skipping down the rough path. The sound of hagglers and chickens grows louder, and the sweet smell of lavender fades into a whirl of smoke and musk. Arya blends easily, gliding through the bustling crowd and ducking under stray elbows and waving baskets.

A strong scent makes her pause, pulling her towards a meat stand. A young boy manages the cart, and looks at her warily.

“How much for one?” she points at a row of roasted chicken legs.

“This for paying customers,” the boy scrunches his face at Arya, assessing her.

“I can pay,” Arya scowls.

“It’s three for two coin,” the boy retorts, holding out his hand expectantly. Arya digs into her pocket and thrusts the money into his hands, glaring at him challengingly. He withdraws his hand and immediately drops three legs into a paper roll. Arya smiles sweetly before grabbing the roll (somewhat snappishly, though utterly not her fault) and stalks away.

Arya remembers the way they had come on their journey from Winterfell, the rolling hills and sweeping lawns that stretch for miles, crowned with jagged rock and softly flowing streams, all interwoven with the single dirt path that horsemen and carriages would take to reach King’s Landing. It is then that she remembers Nymeria, and with a pang of guilt she wishes she had thought to bring her along.

“She is too big,” Arya says to herself. “She would have found us out.” Her words are unconvincing even to her ears.

Once past the market Arya weaves through the village, a smile curling on her lips when she sees little boys and girls playing old games she played often in Winterfell. _Some things never change_ , Arya ponders. _Perhaps we are not so unlike after all._

Her legs start to feel that sweet ache from walking for a prolonged period of time, and she revels in it. She strides faster, grinning, until she skips past the last inn and onto the free road. Immediately the air changes, no longer laced with strange smells and thick smoke, nor with false sweetness from too many flowers—she breathes the free air again, and it makes her almost dizzy with excitement.

Arya does not stay near the road but does not stray too far from the village either. The last thing she wants is to get lost—she can hear Sansa’s condescending tone already: “You’re such a _child_ ,” she’d sniff, “needlessly worrying Father. Prince Joffrey had half a mind to send the Hound for you.” Arya shivers. The closer she is to the village, the more assured she would be.

Arya wastes no time in bounding past a thicket of trees and onto a spindling rock, her breath catching when sees the country sprawling before her. She sits there for some time, then remembers the food she bought and pulls out a roast leg. She munches on it with content, laying down across the rock and closing her eyes.

Vaguely Arya notices the sun’s light starting to dim. The chicken has made her thirsty, and she’d much rather venture back to the castle before supper. But the breeze is cool against her skin and the air is light, that her eyes remain closed for a very long while.

“A little girl on a rock,” a voice says quietly. “Not a sight often seen, and not so far from home.”

Arya startles and opens her eyes, squinting at the figure looming beside her. He stands just in front of the sun and she has to blink several times for her vision to adjust. Her eyes catch a flash of red, but when she blinks again she sees a man with short black hair and tired eyes.

She scrambles to her feet, clutching the paper roll tightly. Her fingers twitch to her left and she wishes Needle was with her, vowing silently that she will have it strapped with her if she made it back home safely. Arya’s eyes dart past the man, trying to see how far she could run before he caught up with her. The inn was closest—perhaps she can find safety there for a while.

The man must have sensed her panic, for he takes a gradual step back. “The intention was not to frighten, little girl.”

“Then you should’ve left me alone,” Arya snaps before she can stop herself. She freezes, watching the man warily.

Strangely, he smiles. “Then someone else would have found you. Someone with less than curious intentions.”

“I don’t have any money anymore,” Arya says. Stiffly, she holds out the food. “Take this and I’ll be off.”

The man tilts his head, eyeing the package curiously. “I did not ask for it.”

“Well I’m giving it,” Arya bristles, still holding out her arm. “Go ahead. It’s good.”

He takes it carefully. “Feeding a man is no small thing, little one. It will be remembered.”

He peaks inside and takes out a drumstick, and to her dismays, holds the roll back towards her.

“It would be cruel to deny you your own treat,” he says, his mouth quirking up in the faintest of smiles, and Arya takes the roll back warily. “Run along, now. It will rain soon."

Arya looks skeptically at the cloudless sky. The stranger shakes his head.

“Stay close to the homes if you wish to pass unnoticed. The streets of King’s Landing are no place for little sleeping girls.”

His words stir something in her, and she thinks she sees a hint of something behind his weary gaze—but she does not linger, and jumps off the rock quickly before bolting away. Once she is far away she looks back. She sees the man lift his hand and take a bite from the chicken leg, turning away from her. Arya runs faster and does not look back again, running until she is back in the village. Despite herself, she heeds the mysterious man’s warning and keeps to the homes, avoiding the lamp lit streets until the castle is within sight again.

Arya gasps when she feels a droplet of water land on her cheek. She brushes it away, staring up at the sky in wonder. When a flash of lightning streaks in the air, Arya runs faster.

Arya doesn’t even try to hop over the garden wall again, going straight for the castle gate. The guards look at her in bewilderment before letting her pass.

She does not stop until she’s back in her room. Breathless, Arya stares out the window. The sun is gone, rain pounding on the glass. Nobody has noticed her absence.

Or so she thought.

She left the door open, and within moments Sansa is standing by the doorframe. “There you are,” Sansa crosses her arms. “They were saying you went missing from the garden."

“I left the garden,” said Arya, shifting the package behind her back.

“Were you here whole time?”

“In the castle, yes.”

Sansa looks relieved. Arya looks at her questioningly. “I overheard Father speaking with the King. Someone was killed near the market, someone not from these parts.”

“Who was killed?” Arya asks curiously.

“I don’t know, but I’m glad you stayed here. Father would’ve been very angry with you if you’d gone out today, especially on that silly adventure you were going on about earlier.”

Sansa leaves telling her to get ready for dinner, and Arya closes the door. She stares at the roll in her hand. Rain slides heavily down her window, and Arya wonders about the strange man who woke her.

**-:-**

**The Second**

Arya waits until Gendry is asleep. She listens for his even breathing, passing slowly through his mouth and inhaling through his nose. She glances over at the other boys. Silent.

Arya lifts herself up from the ground and stares through the darkness. Far ahead she can see torches lit where the men camp, but none were watching the younger ones. Arya quietly grabs her skin of water.

She has trouble making him out in the cage at first, but realizes he is still sitting where she left him earlier. His long hair and slender frame are easy to make out in the faint moonlight.

She barely makes another step forward before the man lifts his head and gazes at her, his brown eyes piercing hers. It makes Arya falter.

“Lovely boy,” he whispers curiously.

Arya looks down unsurely before holding out the skin. “Quick, before they see.”

The man looks at her in surprise. Silently he takes the skin and glances at his companions, making sure they are still asleep. He tilts his head back and drinks deeply, his eyes closing. The relief and gratitude is clear in his eyes when he hands the skin back to her, and he presses closely against the bars.

“A man is grateful,” he says quietly. “Not many would risk their life to help a prisoner.”

Arya shrugs. “If I were in there, I’d hope for someone to give me water.”

“Still, it is kindness. A man will remember this.”

Arya says nothing. She fiddles with the water skin, looking at him contemplatively.

“A boy is restless,” the man smirks softly. “A boy came for more than giving a man some water.”

“The men you’re with—they’re dangerous,” Arya says. “It’s why they’re in this cage and not outside like the rest of us.”

His eyes slide lazily over to the sleeping men. “They are not honorable men, if that is what you mean.”

“The Night’s Watch is filled with murderers and rapists,” she replies, remembering what she had been told. “And yet there is a cage.”

He watches her silently, waiting for her to speak.

“How did you end up in here?” Arya blurts.

The man—Jaqen, she remembers—smiles. “A man is not like his companions,” he assures her softly. “He is here by the will of the gods. That is all a man can say.”

“That’s not an answer,” Arya frowns in annoyance.

Jaqen chuckles. “It is the only one he can give you. Go now, boy, before they see you. Unless you wish to be in this cage as well.”

Arya closes her mouth, staring at him. Without a word, she turns around and returns to her camp, not knowing that he watched her until she disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! This will be a relatively short fic, but definitely a lot of fun overall. Writing Jaqen is definitely a very intriguing experience, he's such a mystery himself that to write for him was just amazing. 
> 
> Let me know if you liked it, it would mean a lot xx


	2. Chapter 2

**-:-**

**The Third**

Arya stares unseeingly into the darkness surrounding her, save for the dim torchlights flickering further down the alley of Harrenhal. Her mind circles around the image of the Tickler over and over, unable to stop seeing the twisted neck and the eyes blown wide with shock. Arya wonders what his last thought was when he realized he was going to die, if he had time enough to have any thoughts at all.

“A girl should not smile so broadly, even in the disguise of the night.”

Arya looks up. He is there again, leaning against the stone wall with the corner of his mouth curling up, as if sharing a private jest.

“I was putting away the pitcher,” Arya says, though her hand continues holding the pitcher suspended over the barrel of water, her fingers gripping it tightly. “My duties are done for the night.”

Jaqen lifts a brow at her. Ducking her head, Arya finally places the steel pitcher on the barrel and steps away from it. For a while it is quiet, and Jaqen watches her with interest.

“A girl has questions on her tongue. Questions for a man,” he says quietly.

Arya’s eyes flicker up. “You’ll answer them?”

Jaqen tilts his head in a small bow.

“Was it fast?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know you were going to kill him?”

Jaqen’s lips quirk. “He may have realized when a pair of hands appeared on his throat.”

“Did he feel pain?” The last question is said in a rush, a look of desperation glinting in Arya’s gaze. Jaqen peers down at her, as if reading her face in the darkness.

“Would it make a difference if he did?” he asks. Arya doesn’t reply. “Would it make him any less dead?”

“No,” Arya replies, her voice made of stone and water, sure and uncertain. “But did he?”

Jaqen inhales slowly, turning away from her and leaning his back against the stone wall. “He felt as much pain as any man when his neck is broken in half, lovely girl. You saw his eyes.”

Arya looks away, thinking. It is not much, but something relaxes in her at his words. As if the satisfaction at seeing the Tickler’s demise is now complete. “Thank you,” Arya brings her gaze back up to Jaqen, smiling a little.

He shakes his head, just once. “It was no favor, lovely girl. The debt to the Red God must be paid.”

Arya nods, turning away. Before she can leave, Jaqen speaks again. “A man would ask of three as well.”

She whirls around, gaping at Jaqen with disbelief. “How am I supposed to kill anyone here like you do? That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“A girl misunderstands. You asked three questions just now. I would ask three of you, if you allow it.”

Understanding fills her. She sees the question for what it is; he’s given her the option to refuse. Because she owes him nothing, not with the steadfast way in which he deems the lives he owes her as lives returned to the Red God. She stares at him searchingly, but sees nothing but a mask held carefully blank, neither expectant nor disappointed as he stares back at her.

“Alright.”

Jaqen tips his head again at her gracefully, before looking her straight in the eye. “A man would know what a boy named Joffrey has done to be whispered on a girl’s lips in the dead of night.”

The question hits her heart like a shard of ice, plunging her mind into pain and fear. Jaqen watches her patiently, his expression unchanging. As quickly as the panic comes it recedes, as it always does when she pushes it far back in her mind. “He ordered my father’s execution for being a traitor. My father was no traitor.”

Jaqen says nothing. She realizes this is the second time she’s ever spoken of this—the first being Gendry—and instead of fear crawling through her, now she finds she cannot stop the words from spilling her lips—not when her audience is listening raptly, when he has just murdered a man she told him to; when the man has no loyalties to Westeros just like her. “My name isn’t Arry. I am Arya of House Stark. Three weeks ago the crown wrongfully executed my father. I watched it happen.”

Jaqen’s gaze turns sharp, no longer watching her sedately. Arya glances away. “Alright, I didn’t see it happen. But I was there,” Arya says defiantly. “I heard the axe come down on his neck, heard the fall of my father’s head rolling onto the pavilion. I heard the screaming from my sister Sansa before she fell in a faint. I saw the smile on Joffrey’s face when blood began to run from the executioner’s block. I saw the smirk when Cersei heard Joffrey’s final edict come true. I _hate_ them.”

Arya’s breathing loudly now, and it takes her several moments to slow herself down. In all this time Jaqen waits, until she has enough courage to look up at him again.

He lifts a single gloved finger and wipes across her cheek. Arya nearly startles when she sees moisture come back on the glove when he moves his hand away.

“Go now, lovely girl,” Jaqen says, in that whisper-quiet way that brings a shiver in her chest. “A cupbearer’s duties begin earlier than dawn.”

He does not wait for her reply, stepping away from the wall and disappearing down the alley into the darkness.

**-:-**

News of Ser Amory Lorch’s murder seizes Harrenhal with whispers and fear, and a flurry of inquisitions from Tywin Lannister himself. Arya only feels relief; that, and the sudden need to seek his murderer.

She must be smart, with so many eyes now peering with suspicion, so she does not look for him immediately. Arya waits, ever patient as she fills and fills and fills the Master of Harrenhal’s goblet with water and wine. She waits as she cleans his table, as she fetches buckets of water to his bedchambers. And when she is relieved of her duties, she waits as she eats a scrap of bread with a strip of meat before discreetly stuffing some more under her shirt.

She finds him alone with a tankard of ale, leaning against the upper bridge that overlooked the open work area of Harrenhal. There are few people about at this hour of the early evening, most crowded inside the halls as Arya had just been for dinner. Jaqen’s demeanor does not change when he sees Arya approach him. He places the tankard on the ledge and waits for Arya to stand before him.

Without a word, Arya pulls out the bread and a wedge of cheese along with the strips of meat from under her shirt, and holds them out to him.

“Are these tokens of favor for a job well done?” Jaqen looks amused as he eyes the food in her hands.

“I thought you’d be hungry,” Arya shrugs. “They’re for you.”

“A man is a knight in this castle, lovely girl. He is not bereft of food, food much richer than this. All the same,” Jaqen leans forward and accepts the bread. “It is most appreciated. Feeding a man is no small thing in these times.”

The words are familiar, tugging at a part of her mind before disappearing with the wind that blows her hair. “These are for you too,” Arya holds out the cheese and the meat.

“A man will not take more than he needs.” Jaqen waves his hand at her encouragingly. “Eat the rest.”

They eat in silence, sometimes looking over the people slowly meandering below, sometimes looking beyond the guarded gates where freedom lay. Once she finishes Jaqen holds out his tankard to her, and Arya accepts with a grin.

“My brother Robb sometimes let me have a sip of his ale during supper,” Arya remembers, and takes a small sip from the tankard. “He’ll be feasting now, too, with all the victories he’s had as King of the North.”

“A girl is fond of her family,” Jaqen observes.

“I love my family,” Arya says immediately. “Even my sister, for all she’s done.” Her face does not sour at all when she speaks of Sansa, and Arya wonders when this change had happened in her mind. Try as she may, Arya cannot conjure the rush of anger or annoyance she had of Sansa for a large part of her life. She only remembers the vivid red of her hair, the sweet voice when Sansa sang the stories of old. She remembers the screams that fell from Sansa’s throat when Father was cut in two, a sound that will haunt her for a very long time.

The hollowness begins creeping back inside her belly, so Arya returns her attention to Jaqen. “What did you use to kill him?”

Jaqen’s mouth turns up in a smirk, drinking deeply from his tankard. “A man has his ways.”

“It couldn’t have been in person; there was no time and he had already reached Tywin,” Arya guesses, biting her lip. “An arrow?”

“A dart,” Jaqen reveals, a smile tugging at his lips when Arya’s eyes light up with interest, “into the neck, dipped in wolfsbane.”

“Wow.” Arya sits back in deep thought, mulling it over. “How did you even get a dart dipped in wolfsbane? Where would you even find wolfsbane in these parts? No, don’t tell me,” Arya holds up her hand just as Jaqen opens his mouth. “I’ll learn for myself, perhaps.”

Jaqen considers her for a long moment. “A man would have his two remaining questions now.”

Arya nods, taking the tankard and having one more sip. Once she sets it down, Jaqen asks, “Have you taken a life, before a girl became a boy?”

He looks at her the same as he had when he asked the first question—direct, unmoving, watchful. His face has no trace of humor or ill will, just one of a man waiting for an answer.

“Yes. Once. It wasn’t…” Jaqen tilts his head slowly, waiting. Arya steels herself. “I would have died if I hadn’t.”

“A man does not judge,” Jaqen replies easily, not looking away as he finishes the last of the ale.

“One question left. Best make it a good one.”

Jaqen gazes at her quietly, expression unreadable. “Would a girl give up all that she knows, if it meant the names on her list would be crossed out?”

Arya does not hesitate when she answers.

“Yes.”

Jaqen’s mouth dips into a deep frown. “A girl speaks with too much haste. This is no small question, Arya of House Stark.”

“Nothing matters to me anymore. I don’t need to think for this answer. Yes. Always yes. I don’t care about ‘all that I know’ if it meant I can avenge my family. Take it. I give it _gladly_.”

Something passes over Jaqen’s face, but it is gone before Arya can dwell on it. “A man thanks you for your honesty. Go rest now, lovely girl. For the night is not kind, even to the likes of us.”

Jaqen stands and reaches for his tankard. He pauses before her, peering down at Arya. She watches in surprise as he pats the top of her head gently, before taking his leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> So, I have some major explaining to do. I posted chapter one in 2015, and it's been, well. Quite some time since. Sorry.
> 
> The good news is, I'm back and launching into regular updates for this fic and the rest of my WIPs. Hooray! this fic won't be terribly long at all, so I've been planning an actual in-depth fic for these two that will likely start once this fic is finished. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Until chapter 3 xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl arrives at Braavos.

**-:-**

**The Fourth**

Needle bumps gently against her thigh as Arya follows the mysterious robed man through the alleys of Braavos. They walk in silence and Arya stays a good distance behind, eyeing the streets warily. Braavos has suddenly gone vacant in midday, no tinker nor merchant stationed at any of the stalls. She suspects it’s because of the dark-skinned man in the billowing robes, leading her back to the edge of the water where Arya had been just hours ago.

Finally, she’s had enough.

“Who are you?” Arya bursts. “Why were they afraid of you?”

The man stops before the black and white doors, and turns around. “You dropped this.”

He flips a coin at her and Arya’s hands dart out to catch it. She turns it over in her fingers, staring at the blurred image before glancing back up at the man.

The corner of his lips quirks. _I’ve seen that smirk before_ , Arya thinks, but all thoughts halt when he brings up a hand and slides his fingertips across his face. The change happens at once, quicker than the blink of an eye—one second he is an old, wizened man, and the next he is Jaqen H’ghar. The very same dark, reddish hair with streaks of white, the same light eyes that were fixed on her in that penetrative, unreadable way.

“You said there was no Jaqen H’ghar here,” Arya’s brows furrow in confusion.

“There isn’t. A man is not Jaqen H’ghar.”

He turns his back to her, continuing up the steps to the doors.

“Well who are you then?”

Jaqen pauses, turning back slowly. “No one. And that is who a girl must become.”

He holds open the door with one arm. Staring at her with the very same blank look, waiting for her next move. _A choice_ , she thinks. Stay, or leave. Return to her pigeon supper and cold nights on the unforgiving streets of Braavos, or begin a new life.

Arya walks up the steps. She glances up at him, but again his face gives nothing away. She returns her attention ahead of her, not noticing Jaqen’s eyes following Arya, or the hint of a smile that just barely twitched his lips.

The door closes behind her and her eyes are met with darkness. No—no, not darkness. Dim light. It takes several moments for her eyes to adjust to it—small, flickering candles placed along the walls of a great hall, in the center of which is a large pool of water. Her eyes dart up to the great statues standing amongst the stone walls; the Stranger, the Drowned God, the Weeping Woman.

A shadow falls over her, and Arya looks up. Jaqen nods quietly at her. “Come.”

Arya follows Jaqen out from the hall to a set of stone steps, winding up and up until she feels the beginnings of her breath coming short. She tries keeping track of where they go. She counts on her fingers, ticking off numbers with a touch of her thumbs against her skin as they walk.

They cross a long corridor, dimly lit with more little candles, before stopping in front of a wooden door. Jaqen turns the latch and holds a door open for her once more.

The room is sparse. A bed is carved into a stone wall with a thin straw mattress and sheets. A single chair and desk. Arya turns around to ask him a question, but he is already gone. She never even heard him shut the door.

Arya’s eyes dart around the room quickly. There are no hidden corners or crevices, no window to peer out of. She eyes the slight mattress. With nimble fingers, Arya removes Needle and carefully tucks it underneath the straw.

She eyes the door again. The urge to slip out and search the House of Black and White herself is strong, but her mind is stronger. Now is not the time. She knows her place here is tenuous; there is a reason Jaqen did not reveal himself to her when she first appeared before him at the double doors.

So instead, Arya settles onto the mattress and pulls out the coin.

“Cersei. Walder Frey. The Mountain. Meryn Trant.”

The words are a trance, a liminal space between what is and what she wants. She says them again and again, under her breath, in her mind, turning the coin over and over between her fingers. Her eyes slip closed, falling into a dreamless sleep for the first time in months.

Beyond her room, a man who wears the face of Jaqen H’ghar leans away from the door and leaves.

**-:-**

The wound on her lip still hurts where Jaqen’s whip had struck it. Her walk back from the docks is harrowing, and even though Needle is safely tucked beneath a pile of rock, Arya feels lonelier than she has since leaving the Hound to die.

A breeze flutters through her hair and Arya reaches up to twist it through her fingers. She’d finally shed what she could of Arya Stark—that included the layer of dirt and grime she sported for a full week since arriving at Braavos. An acolyte had given her a set of standard blue robes and soap, and Arya didn’t need to be told what to do next.

 _It is nice_ , Arya thinks. It reminds her of Sansa—then again, what doesn’t remind Arya of Sansa? Or Bran, or Jon, or Rickon?

“None of that now,” Arya says to herself. “I must be no one.”

No one returns to the House of Black and White, and no one sweeps the floors until her fingers gain new callouses, and no one returns to her room without a word. No one avoids the man she knows as Jaqen H’ghar, not so much to spare herself from new pain but so she cannot see a new shade of disappointment he has in her.

 _He was disappointed in Arya Stark_ , she reminds herself again. That is not who she is now. Who she...wants to be now.

Even in her thoughts, she is unconvincing.

She returns to her room with no small modicum of relief. The day has been long—sweeping, the game of faces from the Waif, the game of faces from Jaqen, the relinquishment of Arya’s belongings. Her stomach aches feebly, but she does not feel brave enough to venture the kitchens. Without the iron cloak of Arya Stark, a girl is bereft of all the courage she felt when she arrived in Braavos.

She sits instead. Stares listlessly at the wall, watching shadows chase themselves from the flickering flame of the candle. Her mind draws images—ones that had previously been forced down by Arya Stark’s mantra. _Cersei. Walder Frey. The M—_

 _No_ , she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut. She can’t. Not anymore. She is—she is _no one_ , nobody wants a list, she doesn’t—she doesn’t—

“A man thought a girl would have suffered enough during the day, than to hurt herself by night as well.”

Arya’s eyes fly open. Jaqen stands still by the door, something held in his hands. Her eyes widen and Arya rises from the bed.

The silver tray of food is unexpected. She can’t quite believe it is here, in her room, and brought by _him_. Of all that has happened to her these last few days, this is the most unbelievable.

Arya shakes her head. She gives him a strange look. “Why?”

“A girl did not come for dinner,” Jaqen says with a slight shrug, as if it was the easiest answer in the world.

“A girl had duties,” Arya replies, her eyes sliding away from his to take in the food before her. Strips of meat, bread rolls, cheese, three legs of chicken. A cup filled with water sits next to the tray. “And the House has strict rules of meal times.” She gives him a pointed look. Jaqen stares back indifferently.

“Eat, do not eat. It is all the same to a man. The choice has been given.”

 _But why?_ Arya wants to ask. It’s undeserving. It’s unwanted. Isn’t it? She hates him for a second. A master of cruelty and kindness is her teacher. But that is what it is to be Faceless, isn’t it? Duplicity. There was a time Arya thought she knew who Jaqen was. The shadow in the night who killed who she wanted dead; the silent, sure strength that walked with her in spirit out of Harrenhal. Just his memory had been a comfort to Arya for years.

She does not know this Jaqen H’ghar. Perhaps what he said is right—there never was a Jaqen H’ghar.

Yet, this one brought her a meal. Arya’s stomach gives a loud rumble, effectively making the decision for her and halting her thoughts. With a shrug, Arya reaches for the bread.

“You can take some,” Arya offers, her mouth full of bread.

Jaqen shakes his head. “One does not pilfer a repayment.”

“…Repayment?”

She glances at the food. The meat strips, the bread, cheese. Even the cup of water. All of these, Arya had given him when he was still named Jaqen H’ghar.

Arya looks up at Jaqen with genuine surprise. “You remember even this?”

“A man remembers everything,” Jaqen tips his head in acknowledgement.

She opens her mouth, but it twists into a smirk. “Clearly not everything. I never gave you roasted chicken legs.”

The slow, mysterious smile curls the corner of his mouth. “Did you not? Not ever, with fear and generosity, offer an unknown and hungry man the last of her treat?” At Arya’s unsure look, Jaqen turns his attention back to the tray. “That must be amended, then.”

He reaches for the chicken but Arya’s hand darts out and closes around his wrist. His eyes flicker down to her, unsurprised. He could have stopped her if he wanted, but he hadn’t. Arya peers up at him, shaking her head with disbelief. “You…that was you?” She closes her eyes again, conjuring up a memory she thought long gone. Of gardens and Lannister guards and—“The man in the field.” Her eyes open, flickering over his face. “Your hair was shorter. Your skin, warmer. I gave you my food so you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“A man was never going to hurt you.”

“I know. I realized.” A swell of emotions whirl around in her, none of them quite within her grasp. “That was _you_. That…someone had died that evening. Sansa told me when I returned to my chambers. Murdered in the citadel.”

Jaqen says nothing, and he doesn’t need to. Suddenly Arya feels like a heavy weight has settled in her chest as she remembers how the rest of her days in King’s Landing followed. It dawns on her, in some vacant part of her mind that is still somewhat cognizant of things other than a barrage of her memories, that Jaqen H’ghar has known Arya much longer than she thought he did.

She sits slowly on the bed. Jaqen watches her curiously from across the room. The gods work in strange ways—no, not gods. One god. In that with some twist of fate, the last person still left that knew her from when she was still in King’s landing is Jaqen.

“They killed my brother’s direwolf, you know,” Arya says, her voice sounding oddly blank even to her ears. “I watched it happen. They say they cut off its head and sewed it onto my brother’s body, and paraded him across the streets tied a horse.”

The bed shifts a little. Jaqen now sits beside her, watching her intently. He has no whip, and this is no game of faces for him. But it is for her.

“They say they slit my mother’s throat and cut it to the bone. They mutilated her, and threw her body in the river.”

“Lovely girl, you do not have to tell a man these things.”

“I want to.” She glances at him, willing him to understand. “Robb, Mother, Father. Bran, Rickon. Sansa and Jon are all that is left, but they are lost to me anyway. I have no idea where Sansa is, if she is still alive. I have nothing. Arya Stark was always going to have nothing.” She looks away. “I should have went with you when we escaped Harrenhal. I should never have tried finding my family on my own.”

“Arya Stark did what any daughter would have done,” Jaqen says firmly, but his voice is soft and quiet. “A girl does not have nothing. A girl came to Braavos. A girl is training in the most feared and revered House of the Free Cities. A girl is not alone—none of us are ever alone. The Many-Faced God watches all.”

She feels a tear slide down her cheek and hastily brushes it away. To her annoyance, they continue to roll down—two, than four more, and no amount of wiping them away is slowing it down. She feels the weight in her chest crack and knows she’s very quickly losing the battle against her emotions. And even worse, to have her master witness her true inability of maintaining control of herself. _What a Faceless Man I will make_ , Arya thinks bitterly.

Arya feels Jaqen’s hand slides down her back slowly. She glances up and meets his gaze, and sees a depth of sadness in it.

“Don’t pity me.”

“A man does not.”

Arya closes her eyes, biting her lip as she rests her elbows on her knees and her face drops in her hands. “Let me have this, and I’ll be done. I’ll—a girl will never h…have…a reason for tears soon. It’s Arya who weeps.”

“She may weep as long as she needs.”

Arya sniffs. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“A man does not doubt it.” She can hear the smile in his voice.

The tears eventually abate. Wiping her eyes one final time, Arya manages a small smile. “I never thanked you.”

Mirth enters Jaqen’s eyes as he smirks down at her. “A girl is most confusing—first she’s angered, then she’s sorry, and now she wishes to thank? Any man would be lucky to know such a mind as swiftly changing as the seasons of old.”

A small, tiny laugh bubbles from Arya’s throat, and with the way Jaqen looks at her now she suspects that was what he intended. “I mean it. Thank you for helping a little girl beyond what you promised. For offering her a place in your order, and then giving a coin when she refused the offer. You believe in me and I don’t know why. I’m…in your debt, forever.”

“Be careful, lovely girl. Forever can exist in the House of Black and White,” he says, but the corner of his mouth twists upwards in jest.

Arya thinks that here, in this room and in this moment, she is freely Arya Stark and he is freely Jaqen H’ghar. It is who he once was, and who he was for her three years ago. The Jaqen she knew had wiped her tears with a gloved finger when they fell, had mussed her hair like Jon would when they were still in Winterfell. He is not distant, or cold, with a blank mask carefully in place. And that familiarity, that knowledge of their friendship that still exists—that she feels between them as warm as summer wind—is enough for Arya to say ‘thank you’ one last time before closing her eyes and pulling him into an embrace.

There is a moment of hesitance, a hairsbreadth short of a moment. Then she feels a hand pat her head, and an arm gently around her back. It is over quickly; Arya pulls away and stares up at her master. For a second she sees a flicker of something—sadness, acceptance—she can’t place it. But she knows their moment of freedom has ended. A mask falls over his eyes and it does for Arya as well. Jaqen stands and leaves, closing the door behind him.

With a renewed sense of determination, Arya scarfs down every last crumb on the serving tray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovelies for reading! If you enjoyed reading this chapter, please feel free to drop a line. This is a small little fandom, and every bit of feedback is appreciated (and LOVED).
> 
> Dialogue from season 5 of _Game of Thrones_ belongs to HBO, D &D, and George R.R. Martin, and certainly not of a poor grad student writing Faceless Man fanfic. :)
> 
> Until chapter 4 xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blind girl meets with her Master.

**-:-**

**The Fifth**

Her first thought is, _punishment_.

The second, _betrayal_.

Jaqen hadn’t flinched when she looked at him despairingly as her vision receded in a world of endless dark. No, the iron mask was in place. She doesn’t know if that was the real Jaqen, even now.

He hadn’t flinched, but only in Arya’s triumphant moments during a particularly good day does Arya allow herself to consider what she’d actually seen; pity.

Now, sat against a wall with a beggar’s cup in her muddied hands, Arya knows what this really is; _training_.

Arya Stark does not blame Jaqen H’ghar’s pity, for she pities herself as well. Or she did, the first week during her disguise as a blind beggar girl. Arya Stark felt sorry for the loss of her pride, shaking a cup for coin. She felt angry at the vile words spat at her from an unkind stranger, at the hard kick in the ribs she’d receive if she was begging too persistently. Arya Stark of Winterfell was stubborn, and bitter, and ever so sorrowful at what her life had become.

A _girl_ named Arya (she likes to make this distinction, in light of her inability to truly shed her identity) took that self-pity and tucked it in a neat little box in the corner of her mind, adjacent to her List and the very bad, terrible memories Arya Stark did not think about anymore. A girl named Arya now listens. She listens, she begs, and she learns.

She learns the gait with which the Waif walks—ever so faint that it is, her steps almost imperceptible. _Almost_.

The Waif has a slight favoring of her right foot, and it gives her away every time the Waif appears without notice. A girl named Arya can’t block all of the blows from her staff, but Arya is patient now. She takes every throbbing pain and uses it to her advantage.

She learns the people of Braavos are foolish. They strut about the fish market and gossip, thinking a blind girl means a senseless girl. She has no desire to correct the distinction for them.

She also knows when Jaqen—the _real_ Jaqen—stops to visit her. His scent precedes his arrival—Arya is surprised she never put two and two together before. The strong, lingering scent of ginger and cloves clings to Jaqen like a second skin, and it carries with him every time he’s come to see her.

Sometimes he throws a staff at her and spars. These sessions don’t go very well, as he is faster than the Waif and quieter with his steps, and therefore less easy to predict where his blows will land. Sometimes he asks what a girl named Beth has learned this day, and she tells him—the fish monger is cheating on his wife, the clam merchant smuggled a family from Yunkai to Braavos several weeks ago, and the acolytes whom Arya deigned not to name (“the acolytes have no name, Master”) are having dalliances amongst themselves outside the walls of the House of Black and White.

To which he had replied with a lazy drawl, “A man asked a girl what she _learned_ , not what a man and the entire House already know.”

This day, however, the scent of ginger and cloves comes but Jaqen says nothing. No staff is thrown her way, no questions pried from her. He simply is, just as Arya is. Sometimes she feels a slight prick along her spine, and deduces in those moments he is watching her.

Something is different this time. She senses it. Perhaps her time as the blind beggar girl is coming to an end. Perhaps not. Jaqen does not speak, and Arya decides it is time to speak what’s been turning over in her mind for weeks.

“A girl wishes to say something to a man from Lorath.”

She hears a soft huff, and Jaqen’s voice is indulgent. “A girl may speak freely.”

Arya puts down the begging cup carefully and folds her hands in her lap. She stares unseeingly, and Arya is grateful for it. She doesn’t think she could say this while looking upon his face.

“Three years ago, a man who called himself Jaqen H’ghar offered a girl named Arya Stark salvation from Westeros.”

“A man remembers.”

“Jaqen H’ghar told Arya Stark she may learn his ways of changing face, of killing silently without notice. Does he deny it?”

“No.” His tone is questioning, curious.

“To Braavos, he said. A list of names she has—Joffrey, Cersei, Iln Payne, the Hound—all names she could offer to the Red God. As a Faceless man.” Arya turns to where she had heard his voice, and gives as pointed of a look as possible. “Jaqen H’ghar lied to Arya Stark that day. He had no intention of allowing her to offer the names to the Red God—the Many-Faced God, he meant. It was a lie meant to tempt, and it worked. Does he deny it?”

“A man did not lie that day. He meant every word; he still does.” Jaqen’s voice is a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

“A lie,” Arya says.

“A man warns a girl not to accuse a Faceless Master of a thing that is untrue. These things have consequences.”

Arya ignores him. “You lied and you got what you wanted. I understand; tempting children who have a need for revenge is an easy way to enlist people into the Order.”

“Arya.”

“Meryn Trant was on the list. You _knew_. You knew, and you knew he would die by my hand. Everyone on that list that still lives was to die by my hand and you knew and you _blinded_ me for it.”

“Meryn Trant was not your life to take,” Jaqen’s says, a vein of annoyance in his tone.

“I had offered him to the Many-Faced God, what does it _matter_ if he died by the wrong hand?” Arya says angrily, her throat tightening with unshed tears. “I had offered him, and others, for years and years and years to the God of Death and you lied to me. You lied to me, Jaqen H’ghar, and that is fine. Now I know. Just another one to add to the people who have deceived Arya Stark.”

She feels her chin being grabbed roughly and forced to tilt her head up. “You had one task. You failed. You lied to your Master, to the Many-Faced God, to yourself. You acted selfishly; you did as you wished without consulting others. You did not wait, you did not show patience. Does disobedience in an order of assassins not deserve _discipline?”_

“You killed one of the Order to _discipline_ me?” Arya says incredulously, forcing her chin out of his hand. “You—you showed me _your_ death and blinded me! And no, I don’t resent you for this. I’m training, it needs to be done. But the lie is still there. I’m never going to be allowed to offer the names on Arya Stark’s list to the Many-Faced God. I _understand_ now.”

She feels warm fingers grip her shoulders, squeezing firmly.

“How will a girl learn the consequences of her actions without example?” Jaqen’s voice is low, reprimanding. “She _must_ believe she has doomed all of her brothers and sisters with her single act of selfishness. Lying to the Order for your own personal gain is not tolerated, foolish girl. It had nothing to do with your list of names, and _everything_ to do with _your_ deceit.”

Arya’s insides go cold as ice. She turns his words over in her head, putting the pieces together slowly. “You mean…it wasn’t about killing someone from the list?”

“No.”

Arya’s eyes dart around, unseeing, but full of contradicting thoughts. “Then why kill someone from the Order to…to give back the life I stole?”

At this, she can practically _hear_ him roll his eyes. “This is another weakness in your training. If you had been paying attention during the Waif’s poison lessons, you would have known from the scent that it was a vial for deathly sleep, not death itself.” Jaqen’s voice hardens. “Do not be mistaken, lovely girl. Meryn Trant’s life was _not_ yours to take in this time. It was the Thin Man’s. A girl is fortunate there are some acolytes in the order who are not so grossly short-sighted and took care of that debt.”

Hope surges in Arya’s chest. “‘In this time’? Meaning…there would have been a time?”

Jaqen groans. “Yes, yes, a girl will have her wrath for all the names on her list and offer the Many-Faced God a worthy set of faces. But _that_. Was not. The way.”

Arya turns over this new information in her mind silently. Jaqen’s hands retreat from her shoulders, and she feels a shift in the air indicating he’s sat down beside her.

“He killed my dancing master, Jaqen,” Arya says quietly, finally. “Syrio Forel. He was from Braavos too.”

“A man knew him.”

Arya swallows thickly. “I had to, Jaqen. I _had_ to.” Her voice edges on desperate, praying he understood. Arya bites her lip and continues, a little reluctantly. “But…I understand now. It was not the time or the way. A girl is sorry.”

“A girl’s apology means nothing to the Many-Faced God. Or to a man.”

“A girl has _learned_.”

A pause. Then, “A man is glad of it.”

He shifts, and Arya knows he’s standing again. She expects him to leave immediately—but instead, the scent of ginger wafts over her face and she feels a hand gently pat the top of her head. “Learn, Arya Stark,” Jaqen murmurs quietly. “Do not let suffering be your only teacher.”

The scent of ginger and cloves disappears. And with it, a girl named Arya grasps the beggar’s cup and begins anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! My muse must be picking up because this chapter came to me fairly quickly, as has the next one. I hope you like the little insight to Arya's blinded experience. I really feel like there were inconsistencies with this arc in the show (and the remainder of Arya's time in the House of Black and White), and tried my best clarifying it. 
> 
> I've been mostly following the television series so far, but I thought I'd mention that I'll be making some changes to the direction of the plot than how the show did it. Bless the show writers, but some things could be...improved. Or at least added to or shifted around. So I'll be doing that.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! And please, if you liked this chapter or this story, drop a line and comment xxx
> 
> Until chapter 5 xx


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